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2013.07.05 - Mercy Lead
The light of dawn is beginning to penetrate the jungle canopy, dispelling the darkness that is so comfortable to the likes of Deathstroke. The condensation on the leaves is already starting to heat up, turning in to mist that weighs down clothing and feels thick in the lungs. Ahead is a rocky slope that acts as a crest overlooking the training compound claimed by General Coy. It's minimal at best and one of two strategic strikes planned by the Baroness against her rival, more a show of force than an actual crippling attack. Simple orders. Take it out and everything in it without drawing attention of Madripoors corrupt yet still present government forces. A cakewalk for a man like Slade Wilson. Deathstroke's eye scans over the compound, his HUD zooming in on various spots, checking out security measures for the fourteenth time and causing him to sigh slightly. "I turned down a job killing Blade for this." he mutters to himself as he stands, "Get this over with." he mutters before leaping from his perch among the trees and down to the repelling gear he has set in place. He mostly lets the line slip through his gauntlet-ed hand as he descends at breakneck speeds, using his momentum to helm swing him out wide, a last tug on the rope sending him into a roll through the underbrush. This mission is all about a show, so at least that means he doesn't have to be stealthy. He grins. Stealth is one of his tools, but not his favorite. He likes people to know it's him. He begins to walk through the mist that the rising sun has set ablaze in apt shades of orange fire and black shadows, letting that unsettling pair of colors herald his arrival. Well, that and the pair of now dead sentries that fall from their perches atop the guard towers on either side of the road's approach. He slides the silenced .45 back into it's holster as he goes, wondering how long it'll be before they're missed or someone more alert spots his bold entrance. The towers are barely more than nailed together planks and converted silos. More for over watch and visibility of the terrain beyond over actual defense. Calling this place a compound as they do is laugh worthy but it serves it's purpose. Mesh netting covers the outer walls which like the towers are piece-meal metal sheets and wood. From Deathstroke's vantage atop the western most tower he can see the other /tower/ and the tents to open ground below. A rough estimate of around thirty men call this place their home away from home. Center of the compound a line of polished luxury cars draw the most attention with thugs sitting around on their hoods or standing up against them, some of these 'thugs' little more than kids. Cigarettes in mouths, weapons in hand or leaned up against vehicles, barrels and crates many things mostly old knock off Soviet stock weaponry to stained machetes. There is at least a form of uniform in one regards, the actual, uniforms, which are olive drab and worn much as an undisciplined lot like this would expected to be. General Coy doesn't seem to be too strict on his personel. Oh hey look! It even has in house prostitutes, Deathstroke will now see three of them walking towards an opposing string of tents in a drugged stagger while the rearrest one in hot pink shorts and a very bright yellow top kicks a chicken out of her path. Misinformation on this location, it isn't all soldiers. There are civilians and possible innocents. Deathstroke's HUD draws in the relevant data and he frowns for only a second, not at the prospect of hookers being caught in a crossfire, but rather at the poor Intel. He hates poor intel. It's sloppy. He turns and takes aim for a moment before popping off a trio of round from the silenced pistol, putting holes in the guards on the other tower. Over watch is gone... "Showtime." he says before simply leaping from the tower and over the wall, landing with a heavy THUD on the other side, inside the perimeter. He stands, slowly, one hand reaching back to pull out a two foot long baton that he holds out at his side, waiting for the eyes of the soldiers to turn his way. With a soft hissing sound of metal on metal the baton becomes a staff as he starts walking towards the grouped up 'soldiers'. "Who the fuck is this?" A young man with a bandana over one eye asks. His English heavily accented. In his left hand is a MAC-11, the compact brother of the MAC-10 the weapon then levels on Deathstroke, pointed at him much like a bad TV gangster would, sideways. Discipline here is clearly lacking but it is called a training compound for a reason. "Who the fuck are you?" Asks a taller, older man with grey at his temples and a uniform on that actually fits and is worn like a soldier would actually wear it. A sergeants three bar chevron visible on one sleeve draped across his arms is an M4. Also pointed at Deathstroke. That crowd of a dozen who were lounging against cars or arrayed about like lazy civilians now all upright, weapons in hand and beginning to fan out around the mercenary. "Answer or we kill you right now." "Give the man time to respond." A deep, baritone voice holding obvious authority barks out as a wall of a man steps from behind the largest tent. A well groomed mustache and full head of shaggy hair frame a rugged face as eyes level on Deathstroke. "I actually don't think any of you clowns will like his response anyways." Unlike the others around the man mountain is also wearing a nice suit. His car is probably the only one no one was squatting around on. He bares no weapons and is not even taking on an aggressive posture. Deathstroke's eye narrows further at the way the soldier holds the Mac, something about it simply irking Slade to no end. No respect for the weapon, for himself. He'd kill that one on principle alone. Now the Sargent... He earns the right of a soldier's death. The last voice doesn't stop Slade, no slow him down, though it does cause him to glance to the side, "I am Deathstroke." he says flatly, his voice filtering through the helmet with a metallic tang and an echo. "Sargent, if you kill that one now, I'll give you two minutes for free." he says, stopping in his walk and pointing the bostaff at the gangster holding idiot. "Use them well." "Deathstroke? What a stupid name. What are you mang a rapper? Deathstroke, shee-it. I got something for you to stroke." The punk kid says while his free hand grabs his own crotch in a flippant gesture towards the mercenary. "Deathstroke?" The Sergeant questions and his fingertip is visibly twitching against the trigger gaurd on his assault rifle. Licking his lips he looks at the young man then back at Slade, "Two minutes for free of what?" "Just what I thought." Immediately the man mountain picks up his cell phone and begins to dial and lift it to his ear. Deathstroke's hand moves in a blur, and the silenced .45 comes out, a wet cough spitting out a single round of lead and blasting the cell phone into so much shrapnel without so much as grazing the man's skin. "Free of me." he answers the Sargent as he slowly lowers the gun, putting it back in it's holster. "I would suggest using them to pray, or perhaps call your children if you have any. Fair warning, my patience is running low today. Decide quickly, and you," his helmet turns so he can see the man who was holding the cell, "... did you call in reinforcements?" he sounds hopeful. "Actually I was going to call in and see how much we can spare to pay you off." The man responds as he rubs his fingers together where broken cell phone chips linger, flicking them free. "But now you're beginning to piss me off too." "Yeah, be-atch, you dont' want to piss off the big man, that's Roughouse, he very stro- BLAM BLAM The sergeants m4 spits 5.54mm through the youth's head in a spray of brain matter and skull. "Two minutes, okay?" He holds his rifle up sidelong not barrel first. Confusion descends as everyone stands there while their training commander /the sergeant/ backs up slowly still clutching his weapon and their companion hits the ground with a sickening thump. Loud shrill screams escape prostitutes A and B and somewhere from one of the back huts a child can suddenly be heard bawling. Deathstroke stares at the Sargent, "One minute, fifty-eight seconds." he says flatly. His gaze then falls on Roughouse, "If you were asking that question, you have no idea who I am." he says flatly. "I take the job. I do the job. No exceptions." he looks around the area, "You want to wait for the rest of your girlfriends to arrive at the party? I have one minute and fifty-one seconds to kill." "Kill him." The bearded man demands. First one shot fires off at Deathstroke then a hailstorm of bullets from virtually all directions. It's a beautiful sound really, for those who appreciate such things. The sergeant unlike the others doesn't fire. Instead he hands his rifle off to one of the weaponless trainees shouts that he open fire as well and vanishes from sight. He is running with his remaining minute and thirty some odd seconds. Deathstroke is moving before the big man finishes his command, and he's moving fast. He leaps over a pair of trainee's, the bo staff held low so that it hooks beneath their chins as he goes over. Landing on the other side he yanks and twists, spinning the pair about wildly, throwing two of them into the incoming bullets of others of their kind. The staff spins around his neck with a whistling sound, the force of the spin sliding it through his hand so that it extends to it's fullest length, the metal end caving in the temple of a third man just as the 'marksmen' begin to draw a bead on Slade's new location... Directly in front of all those pretty cars. "Nice car." he says to the big man as the trainees begin to pour hundreds of rounds in his general direction. Now, if only they could aim... Exactly 3 minutes and twelve seconds later... General Coy would be both disappointed and frightened right now. Deathstroke in the matter of minutes has just wiped out one of his training facilities. Around the masked combat master lie bodies of dozens of young hopefuls and the veterans who were in charge of their military upbringing. A body hangs impaled and lifeless upon the smoke stack of an old deuce and a half, a smoldering car burns expelling fumes and the stench of charred bodies, in a circle bodies lie crumpled atop one another broken and destroyed where the mercenary had initiated his assault and somewhere in the jungle a commanding officer runs at breakneck speeds through the wilderness knowing his fate just about shared their own. The mountain of a man Roughouse hadn't moved during the entire ordeal, he patiently watched, waited and stared. Even admired the man's martial abilities. It is done now, assets down the drain and months to almost a years worth of training all for nothing. "Well done." The large form of the Asgardian troll spawn grunts. His lips curled back in a crooked snarl that hasn't left his face yet. "You finished with your fun so I can kill you?" The suit the man wears seems far too tight on his frame suddenly as he flexes and some of the seams snap, not like he is Hulking out or anything just testament to the fact he's a big fuckin' dude and not at all normal in his origins. He sports no weapons other than those huge hairy knuckled hands. He doesn't ever need them. Deathstroke isn't even winded. The glowing ends of his trademark blaststaff spin into a lazy circle as he tucks the metal length up behind his arm, one end still smoking as it juts up over his armored shoulder, and he turns his eye upon the larger man. "Better, and bigger, men then you have tried. I remain." the assassin says in a tone that's insultingly bored. Then in a blur a .50 pistol is shucked from his hip holster and barks a trio of rounds at the big man. He doesn't actually expect them to kill the obvious meta human, but it could give him an understanding of the larger man's durability. "I find that unlikely." The big man's arm rises up as if to shield the bullets taking one in the forearm, the other two in the chest. Roughouse's suit opens up on impact of each round but he doesn't seem to react to them more than if they were punches having been thrown in to him. Turning he grips up the 1968 'Mystery Machine' van hefts it over his head and launches it at Deathstroke in an overhand hurl. "I'm going to rip you to pieces and then keep your mask as a handkerchief. A trophy I'll blow my nose in every time I got something insignificant and annoying stuck." Deathstroke leaps higher then any man wearing that much armor has any right to leap, and places his hand atop the hurtling van, vaulting over it. He twists in the air like and acrobat and brings the white glowing end of the staff at the massive man like it was a spear tip. He braces for the expected block and grins under his mask, "Talk talk talk. You sound just like a hero." his tone suggests the word is an insult. "Hero." Snort. Perhaps heady on his own /might/ Roughouse brings his hand up as if it will stop the path of Deathstroke's staff the other hand reaching out to grab a hold of anything he can on Slade. It's the stench that surprises him first, burnt flesh, cooked hair and sizzling. His hand is cut in to, sliced in to even as a gash appears along palm on down to his wrist and forearm. The bellow of pain erupting from him one of shock and rage. Deathstroke lands lightly on the balls of his feet and spins in a quick motion, placing his own strength and that of his armor into a vicious kick aimed for the inside of the knee that holds the majority of the giant's weight. "You're right. They don't scream so much." he states derisively. No blood thanks to the nature of Deathstroke's tech the wound remains an open gash. That opposing hand missing it's attempted clutch on the agile assassin and wide while with sudden assistance Roughouse topples sideways dropping to one knee only to lash out with both limbs in a vicious flail that sends his fists clublike out at Slade. "Mock me!? Lowly piece of trash." Like any decent warrior the man moves past his pain quickly. The impact was meant to be glancing, Slade moved with the motion intending to brush it aside and duck beneath it, score another hit on that injured knee... He was not expecting /that/ much strength. The blow, glancing as it is, sends him airborne, his body spinning off balance a good half dozen feet before he strikes the earth and slides another six feet before rolling up into a three point stance. Huh. Well then. That alters things slightly. "Why would I not mock you? You are slow, clumsy, for all your potential you waste it playing with tin soldiers not worthy even of the name. You are a disgrace to an honored profession, and a laughing stock to those who know the truth." he stands and the staff whips in the air fast enough to cut it with a whistle, "Lowly peice of trash is an acceptable self analysis. I'm glad you see it too." "Know your betters." Roughouse barks before wobbling to his feet and gripping up a fallen body only to sling it like a rock at Deathstroke, another quickly following it. Yes, Deathstroke supplied the brute with corpse bullets. "Honored profession? You think I am like you? An assassin, I am a warrior, I serve a powerful man with ambition and cunning. Madripoor is just a stepping stone. You are simply a sell sword, a vagabond, a cowardly ronin. Do not speak of honor to me!" Now he is sky born leaping about thirty five to forty feet in the air aimed to drop down towards where the merc is at this moment, those thrown bodies having just been fast ball distractions. Deathstroke leaps the first body and manages to twist in mid air just enough to avoid the second, "I am a soldier." he says simply, "Unlike you I serve no man because none are worthy of it. I serve a code. And if your master was so cunning, he would have hired me." Deathstroke states as his wrist flicks and trio of titanium throwing spikes split the air between him and the troll born. Hey, he can throw stuff too! Spikes embed in hip and shoulder as the downward plummet of Roughouse rocks the ground in a small tremor where he lands shrapnel from the ground exploding up around him. "Perhaps you simply fell beneath notice." No, Coy has at several points shown interest in Deathstroke but for various reasons never hired the man. He prefers to use his own goons and when they are not enough he sends Bloodscream or Roughouse. The two are usually more than enough. Tearing himself out of the man made crater he charges Deathstroke like some hell spawned linebacker with full intent to grab on and ram the super soldier through the wreckage of shelters behind them. Which only minutes ago was a thriving militia brothel. There was at one point children in there or around it... they may still be. Deathstroke grins under his mask, "I doubt it." he says as he whips the staff around in a circle before charging straight at the oncoming man as if planning to meet him head on, "But I imagine you're cheaper." At the last second he drops, going low in an attempt to slide between Roughhouse's legs, the glowing end of the staff raised high enough to hit something... no man wants touched by an energy weapon. "Cheaper? Money is not the concern and you wish to question my honor... you serve who beyond your coin? Let me guess the Baroness? A psychotic whore who desires only corruption and chaos. The General will bring orde... guk." The groin shot amidst the charge silences the train of words Roughouse was drawling out Deathstroke's slide between and behind has the massive figure slamming forward in to the side of the shack and turning it on it's foundation but not crushing, trampling or harming anyone hiding inside. Perhaps knocking whatever junk they have covering their walls down upon them but safety seems to be there. Clutching his midsection Roughouse sprawls half on his side letting out a guttural string of mewling noises no man should make but could understand under such a circumstance, "A cowards move." Tears, actual tears frame the man's eyes as he worriedly looks down between the tear in his pants to make sure his goods are still intact. Everyone dreads what the smell of melted ball sack may be especially if it has a chance of being their own. Deathstroke is already on his feet as the bigger man slams into the wall, and he shakes his head, "You claim to be a warrior, but you've no concept of war." Slade pauses, shrugs, "Honestly I don't care who wins, or does, because governments only last so long as the weak remain weak." the staff collapses in on itself and is tucked away, and the unmistakable sound of metal clearing sheath rings in the courtyard as the large bastard sword Deathstroke carries comes free in his hand. He holds it like a normal man might hold a rapier, as if it weighed nothing, "At the risk of sounding a bit to Tarantino... The truth is that Coy is the weak, and I am the tyranny of evil men. Would you like to see how tyrannical I can be?" he asks as he advances towards the knelling giant with purposeful strides. "I hear your hell has a special place for cowards." Still some spunk left in the Roughouse as he tries to push over on to his hands and knees, failing as one hand reflexively clutches his mid section. "Preach to me... you self righteous... " Pain filled grunts here and there. It's obvious that effective cheap shot from Deathstroke took the fight out of the Rock Troll. For the most part. Deathstroke just shakes his head, "I'm an aitheist." he says as he walks over and stops a safe distance away to eye the fallen man, "Pathetic. If you are the best Coy has to send against us..." he shakes his head. "Run along back to your master," pause, "or hobble as you can, and take this message. Run. Run far and run fast. If he should run far enough fast enough perhaps my employer won't send me to kill him." "Run? Hah! Fuck yo-" The behemoth topples forward and eyes roll in to his head. Faceplant. Deathstroke looks down at the giant and just shakes his head at the absurdity of it all. He takes a knife from his belt and throws it down into the ground before the troll spawn's unconscious eyes so that it will be what he sees when he wakens, and then turns to go, his HUD triggering his coms device, "Deathstroke to Baroness, the camp has been cleared of combatants save one selected to send a message to flee back to his master. You really do need to find yourself a better class of enemy. This was a joke." he pauses, then turns to look out towards the jungle, "Scratch that, my five minute timer just went off, someone's head start is up. I'll be back in," he considers the look of the Sargent from before, "maybe an hour, two tops. Deathstroke out." the comms dies and he turns towards the jungle and jogs off into the deep shadows cast by the trees. Yeah, that Sarge looked like he knew his craft, knew the jungle... this could actually be fun... Category:Log